Predominantly Carl, Others Included
by juggernaut715
Summary: This is a behind the scenes origin of everything but Hogwarts, during the Founding period, with scenarios illustrated by those who would be heroes in another world. Adheres to canon, but deviates significantly in specific situations. Also reflects a lot of actual history, such as 10th century Burgundy. No pairings.


Knowledge is never innate. It must be learned, known, to be utilized. There are many ways of acquiring knowledge. The main route is to study: sitting in front of a desk and read a book, taking notes and then applying the knowledge on an assessment to prove it has been learned.

In hindsight, Carl probably should have studied a bit more on the properties of the spell 'Wex'-specifically the one that involves lethal amounts of electricity upon contact. The orb of lightning was supposed to float around him in orbit, enhancing his speed and perception-but he'd miscalculated the trajectory, and it had caught him in the face. He'd died, in the midst of experimentation. Death, at age ten. Pathetic. His mother, the ragged bat she was, would likely bash him upside the head for such failure.

Though, if he was dead, why did his head still hurt so much?

His eyes opened, then shut, blinded by the brilliant light before him. He held up a hand and squinted, making out the vague details of fine marble and flowing water-a fountain, it seemed. It was huge, and glowed like the sun. As he stared, he could feel his burned skin and aching skull heal, and something tugging on his navel-the familiar sensation of relocation, but deeper and different- pulling him not across a distance, but dimension and time and , he would not be here much longer.

"I will commit this...to memory." He said, swallowing thickly. It was his modus operandi to purge his mind of useless facts and knowledge-but a glimpse into what had to be the afterlife was not something to forget.

When he awoke Carl found himself again blinded, but this time by sense of smell-the stench of his work room was horrific. The jars that had been lining the walls, full of specimens that had interested his father before his death, were mostly shattered and broken. The walls were scorched as if a dragon had come through, billowing flame wherever it breathed. To make matters worse his clothes were all burned off and turned to ash.

"Damn it."

The cleanup lasted hours.

* * *

><p>They were building a school, supposedly, on that backwater island they called Scotland. Carl, now nine and three quarters, could not help but be intrigued. Magical schools were not unheard of, but the rumors concerning this "Hogwarts" were anything but common. Four of the most powerful wizards seen in the Northern globe had come together to create it. Even if they were not recognized as Magus, they were reputed as stalwart and skilled beyond compare. He'd heard stories of each, from his mother, before she left.<p>

Godric Gryffindor. A man whose bravery sometimes reached into the territory of recklessness. His courage knew no bounds, and though another man might have been killed by some of the situations he'd fallen into, he was strong enough to back up his daredevil way of life.

Salazar Slytherin. Another man, but as different from Godric as night and day. His powers came not from a bountiful amount of magical energy to overpower his obstacles, but a cunning mind and a variety of skills that allowed for him to face any adversary and come out on top. While such brilliance might be polluted by ego, Salazar lacked arrogance, and was logical to the core.

Rowena Ravenclaw seemed like Carl's mother. Where Godric and Salazar focused on the front lines of combat, she held a vast amount of knowledge that acted as a foundation for whatever move she or they made. Without her smarts, even Salazar would have been killed by now.

Lastly, but most importantly, was Helga Hufflepuff. When Salazar was on the brink of death from Nundu breath, it was a concoction that Helga had made that saved him. When Godric was faced with a legion of three armies and without a speck of hope, Helga unleashed a horde of Golems and Giants that tore a swath of destruction through the enemy, and faced the remainder side by side with the great warrior. And when Rowena, with all her intellect, could not solve a problem, it was Helga's common sense that saved the day.

Carl truly wondered why they had not all taken the title of Magus. Of course, being a Magus meant far more in Armenia than it did Europe.

* * *

><p>By the time he was twelve Carl had managed to master the use of Wex and Quas to use one of each at the same time. Doing so made his skin crackle with power, and his blood turn frigid as a glacier. Where Wex was lightning, Quas was ice. It was a very nonsensical element-as well as cooling his temperature, it both improved his healing speed and made him physically stronger. It was enthralling, but tiring. Still, it was not enough. There was a third part to the set-though technically there was a fourth, but he wasn't interested in controlling earth. Exort: the sphere of combustion. Yes, he knew what he had to learn, but he lacked the required reading. His father's library, as extensive as it was, only made mentions of the third orb.<p>

Considering he had just finished the final book of the library last night, it was unlikely there was anything more than a footnote.

If one was to ask where the idea of Wex, Quas, and Exort-and Terra- had come from, not even Carl's dead great grandfather would know. It had been passed down in his family since a time when magic was more memory than anything else, and when dragons were more easily spotted than birds.

Supposedly, though the only evidence Carl had was his yellow eyes and slightly pointy ears, his family had at one point mingled with elves. Perhaps it had come from them?

It didn't matter. What did matter was that the time Carl spent trying to figure it out on his own could be spent finding the books to learn it that much faster.

He packed some food, a couple of his fathers talismans, and took off for Hogwarts. The school apparently had a library rivaling that of the old Alexandrian Archives.

* * *

><p>Visiting Rome was a detour he'd rather not have taken. There was a war going on in the settlements up North, blocking his original path. It was a wide war, and kept him from passing until the great city. He'd left Armenia, where his parents had raised him, and traveled across the land by riding along with trade caravans and through relocation points till he reached the sea. Intent on heading North, he did so, until an arrow almost took off his ear. Quick as he could manage, he swung back down South to a dock, hitched a ride, and ended up here.<p>

Now nearing thirteen, Carl felt as though he'd been alive for a hundred years. So many nights had been spent on the cold and unforgiving ground, so many days in the blazing sun...it was arduous, but it would be worth it at the end.

He checked into an inn at the bottom of one of the bad roads, those that had been torn up by armies on their way through to battle and conquest. It was called "The Broken Beaker," but in Elder Latin. A small part of Carl, only a fraction of his mind, was in awe that he was staying in a city that had, only 956 years ago, killed a man believed to be the son of God. The larger part of his mind laughed that god was actually a fountain, and that he'd seen it face to stone.

Halfway into settling in, he heard a commotion from downstairs. Normally he would have ignored it, but it became eerily silent all of a sudden, like someone had turned off the sound. Curious, he left his room and descended the stairs to find a fight taking place in complete silence.

A man was thrown into a chair, breaking it. Not a sound.

In the center of it all was a boy, perhaps a year older than Carl. Where Carl was a natural blond, the boy had brown hair and angry blue eyes, with his lips tightly shut in a grimace of effort and strain. It was a familiar sight: Carl had felt himself make that face plenty of times when deciphering the mysteries of Quas. The boy held a knife, and was dispatching his opponents quickly and efficiently, with merciless force. Carl's eyes scanned for the cause of the commotion, and he found that most of those in the bar were recognizable members of the local group of bandit mages, who used their magic to terrorize the locals. Chances were that they had thought the boy easy prey.

It was people like these that were causing the rift between the normal humans and magic users. Of course, ever since the fall of Rome and the dissolution of the Mason's Clerical Peacekeeping Committee (try saying that three times fast) three hundred years ago, many people on both sides were looking to create more chaos. The committee had been a force that kept those who would profit off of conflict at bay-with it gone, things had been at a steady decline until the new Magus Association was established. However, just because the situation had stopped getting worse, did not mean it was getting any better. Tensions ran high, and incidents like this were only going to make things more strenuous.

The sense of silence seemed to come from the boy. Along with it, now at a closer proximity, came a killer headache that made it hard to stand. Carl stepped into the fray, and pulled on the Etherium to conjure up a single instance of Quas. It did not come. It seemed as though the bandit mages were having the same problems with their spells, as they could not speak aloud their incantations. Quas did not require an incantation, though-whatever the silencing effect was, it was more than just auditory.

Unperturbed, he raised a hand and threw forth a minor spell bolt, hoping for a loophole-the bolt was not actually a spell, but a high concentration of magical energy. It was weak enough that it would do nothing more than sting, but it flew towards the boy unhindered.

Clearly, the boy had not expected it to work. He dodged the first spell bolt, but the second had been aimed towards where he'd dodged, and caught him in the nose, breaking the silence. It stunned him long enough that one of the bandits got a punch in, but that bandit suddenly found himself very cold.

"Quas." Carl said, needlessly, as he used his mind to smash the orb of blue into the man's torso. Frostbite occurred instantly, and the man screamed. Within moments, the rest of the bandits were frozen solid by Carl's magic.

He grinned. His strategy had worked, even if he was now so tired he could barely stand-Quas was incredibly difficult to maintain. Now, if he could-

Whack!

Suddenly the ceiling was the wall. No, wait. Chairs go on the ground, right? Carl reeled from the blow, staggering on his feet as he tried to get his bearings. His vision was blurred, but he could make out the visage of the boy glaring at him.

"Why did you do that?" The boy demanded, pointing his knife. Carl stood up straighter, rubbing his jaw.

"Whatever you did to quiet everything also affected my magic, and gave me a headache." Carl cocked an eyebrow. "What exactly did you do, anyways? I've never heard of a spell like that."

The boy frowned, turning away to loot one of the fallen bodies. The innkeeper was slowly peeking his head out from under the counter, and looked more horrified the more of a mess he saw. It did not escape Carl's attention that the boy did not answer him.

"Hey!" He said, grabbing the boys shoulder and turning him around. In an instant the headache returned full force, and Carl found himself clocked across the jaw again. In retaliation he chucked several stinging spell bolts, nearly burning, in an array that did not allow the boy to dodge more than three-at a minimum, two would connect.

Both of them fell on their asses, and then stood up, angry enough for onlookers to feel it in the air.

"I asked you a question." Carl said, through gritted teeth.

"And why would I answer?" The boy retorted, crossing his arms, wincing when he realized his forearm was still stinging from contact with the raw magic.

"Because knowledge is meant to be shared!" Carl shouted, pointing. "At the end of the day, what you know makes you different from the rest of the cattle. What I know gives me the power to do whatever I want! If everyone knew everything worth knowing, then everyone could do anything!"

The boy did not look impressed. Carl lowered his arms, which he'd raised in the midst of his tirade, and sighed.

"Let's start over." He held out a hand. "My name is Carl. I come from Armenia, and I intend to enter Hogwarts, a magical school in the Land of Scots." He frowned, lowering his hand slightly. "I only meant to help you, you know."

"I would have been fine."

"Whatever!" Carl shouted, waving his arms. "Its over and done with, we're alive, who cares?"

The boy turned away again, but spoke as he did so.

"My name is Nortrom."

* * *

><p>With persistence (bordering on harassment) Carl managed to coax a few answers out of the other boy-unfortunately not including anything about the silence spell-thing.<p>

As it turned out, Nortrom was actually almost a year younger than Carl. He had come from the deserts in the south, though, and his Caucasian skin had not protected him from the sun as well. Consequently, his skin seemed a bit older and more weathered. Even if he appeared to be European, it was in the deserts he'd been born, and into a particular ancient order known as Aeol Drias.

Carl asked him what the order did, and Nortrom told him, in as few words as possible, that it was more or less a collection of bigoted mages who couldn't see past an old feud with a collection of knights further south, in the heart of Africa. In essence, Nortrom was to be their champion, but after an altercation with one of the leading mages he was cast out. His method of causing silence was deemed "dishonorable" and "ill-natured." In secret, however, one of the mages helped Nortrom get a boat to Sicily, and from there he'd made his own way.

Carl said he thought they were a bunch of sore losers, excepting the one who'd helped him, and Nortrom agreed wholeheartedly.

"What are you doing in Rome?" Carl asked, as the pair walked down the cobbled road, after assisting the innkeeper in cleaning up. It took a moment for Nortrom to answer. Carl couldn't tell whether the other boy was just reticent and thinking his words through, wishing Carl would go away (which was not happening) or if he forgot to say them aloud. Silence, it seemed, was something Nortrom did not just use as a weapon, but enjoyed.

"I wanted to see the Calvary."

Carl wracked his mind for a moment, but nothing popped up that referenced a "Calvary."

"The Calvary? What's that?"

"Where Christ was crucified." Carl blinked, looking at his counterpart.

"Are you a believer?"

Nortrom shrugged, saying nothing.

They walked in silence until they found a guard and asked him for directions. He was a big man, but lanky like string cheese.

"Ah, tourists."

Apparently many came to see the Calvary. The guard explained, in what was clearly a rehearsed summary, that the Calvary was actually an old cemetery where countless warriors had been buried-so many that their skeletons made a mountain out of their mass grave. In time it also became the execution grounds of the later Roman Empire. Since the fall of the empire in 476 it had been a staging point for duels and a common landmark for those traveling through, but not much more.

Of course, since Otto the First was crowned Emperor of the new Holy Roman Empire in 962, less than half a century ago, Rome had seen a flourish in culture-but mostly in the religious sense. There were churches everywhere, and people spent a lot of time praying in the streets. The Vatican City obelisk loomed in the sky to the left, solidifying the picture of belief. It was strange how the city that had killed Christ now so revered him.

"Calvary's about a mile outside the east wall-near the old temple, you can't miss it."

"Thanks," Carl said, while Nortrom nodded dutifully.

* * *

><p>After a long time listening to nothing but birdcalls and the wind, Carl decided to start talking.<p>

"My father would have loved this. History was always something he enjoyed, even if he only got involved with it to improve his magic."

Nortrom said nothing. No "stop talking," no "go on," not even a glance in acknowledgement.

"Mother, on the other hand, does not like history. She focuses on the now and future, and hates it when you look back at the past with regret. I think that's a trait I inherited from her after being scolded so many times-and when I say scolded I mean having spell bolts chucked at my head and getting doused with water as cold as Quas. And sometimes i wouldn't have done anything wrong-she'd whack me upside my head to " keep me on my toes." Can you imagine having a mother like that?"

Nortrom said nothing.

"Yeah, well, I don't know what your living situation was like at the order, but I could infer that you didn't have a mother doting on your every suffering."

Again, nothing.

"OK, yeah, I get it, shutting up."

It was slight, but Nortrom smiled.

"Hey!"

* * *

><p>The ground was tinted white from all of the degraded calcium. A few crosses still stood, but only one of them wasn't rotted through or missing its arms. It also had a body on it, still as the grave, with skin rotting and flies buzzing. Evidently there were still crucifixions occurring. Behind it the sun was setting, tinting the sky red and orange.<p>

Something was in the air, something intangible but powerful. Carl could feel it all around him, but could not find the source-not even using his rudimentary magic sensing abilities. Even so, he felt a pull towards the other side of the hill.

"Nortrom."

The silent boy looked over at him, and Carl pointed towards what he saw- a cavern that would have been impossible to spot unless you were looking for it. It was hidden from sight by the hill itself, and it was likely few had any idea it existed.

"I feel something in there."

They walked towards it.

"Something?" Nortrom asked, after a minute, as they approached the entrance.

"I don't know how to describe it. Its nothing like a compulsion, just a...calling?" Carl asked, more to himself than Nortrom. Shrugging, he entered the cave and had to hunch to get past a low ceiling into the main room.

The walls were covered in paint of different colors in a way that led Carl to believe a crowd had come in and splashed buckets of the stuff at the wall. In the middle of the room was an altar, with bandages that looked a thousand years old piled on top. Nortrom walked over and picked them up, finding they turned to dust in his fingers.

As the boy of silence kneeled for prayer, Carl stepped deeper into the chamber, searching the walls for any abnormalities. He found only one-the southern wall had a spot where no paint had touched, about the size of his hand. Upon closer inspection, and a few gentle knocks, he found that the walls were rather thin.

A blast of magic, not a refined bolt, did the job of opening the wall. The dust took a few seconds to settle, but Carl didn't wait-he reached in, and pulled out...a few pebbles.

Well, if ever he felt disappointment, this was the occasion. Signing, he put the pebbles in his back pocket after reaffirming that they held no latent magic or gems. Even if he had perfect memory and they were ordinary bits of rock, he wanted something physical to commemorate what he was sure was only the first of many travels with Nortrom.

* * *

><p>"What did you pray for in there?"<p>

No answer.

"If you don't want to tell me, that's fine. Look what I got." Carl held out a few of the pebbles he'd picked up. "I got rocks. Souvenirs. I wish I had a cloak with that on it-I visited the Calvary and all I got were some rocks."

Nortrom's lips quirked upwards, if only for a moment. The pair took a few steps, but small ones. They hadn't even left the Calvary yet, and were, to Carl, roaming a bit too close to the corpse on the cross for comfort.

"I told you earlier that I'm going to Hogwarts. I would like you to come with me."

"...why?" Nortrom asked, looking up at the dead body like it was a painting of minor interest.

"Because you still haven't told me how to do that spell of silence?" Carl quipped. Nortrom did not appear amused. "I could throw you lines like, it'll be an adventure! But I won't." He stopped walking. "Instead, I'll duel you."

Nortrom stopped walking as well, and turned to face him.

"A duel?"

"If I win, you have to come with me to Hogwarts. You don't have to attend, you don't have to stay, but you have to stick by me until we get there."

Nortrom's lips pressed together in a thin line.

"And If I win?"

"I'll never talk again. I'll be 'silent.'"

This condition perked Nortrom up immensely. He tossed his bag to the ground behind him and pulled his knife from his leg.

"I'll be doing the world a favor when I put your face in the ground."

"That's the longest sentence you've ever said to me, and it was both and insult and a threat-you wound me, Nortrom!"

Carl called a pair of Wex to his side, for he knew he'd need the added speed to even get close to Nortrom's haste. This analysis proved true a fraction of a second later as Carl dodged a wicked jumping slash that would have cut his neck open. The headache arrived then, deleting the Wex from existence, but doing nothing to prevent Carl from inhaling and blowing out a blast of pure magic towards Nortrom.

If anyone was watching, they would have suspected a dragon had been breathing multicolor fire.

Nortrom evaded most of the blast by dropping to the ground, but he did not come out unscathed-his back was burned, if only enough to hurt. He charged and unleashed a flurry of rapid strikes, so fast that whatever injury he'd received was proven cosmetic. Carl withheld from using lethal force-it would not do to carry a corpse to Hogwarts. It would, however, give him a reason to study necromancy.

Caught up in his thoughts, Carl forgot that knees were painful to have forced into your ribcage. He doubled over, taking an elbow to the face that surely broke his nose. Frantic, struck out and slammed a knife hand into Nortrom's throat, forcing him back. Both of them knew it was a lucky strike, and nothing more.

Carl didn't have to hear Nortrom say it aloud-that he was weak.

He was intent on proving that assumption wrong, though. His hands swam through several symbols to push forth a magical missile as big as his head. It rocketed towards Nortrom, who dodged-but then followed the dodge, and smashed into him like a cannonball. The silence cut out, then, but returned a moment later to prevent Carl from doing anything more complicated. Knowing anymore playing around would get him worse than a broken nose-he feel the blood coating his lips and dripping off his chin-the young wizard started a barrage of spell bolts into the dust cloud the missile had kicked up, in the hopes that while Nortrom could dodge ten, he couldn't dodge a hundred.

The strain on his magical reserves was great. His fingers were shaking when he'd finished. The headache had cut out again, though.

"Nortrom?" He asked, looking into the dust cloud. The silent boy exploded forth from it without warning, reaching Nortrom before he could react. He was clearly injured now, though, if the way he clutched his side was an indication. His injuries did not prevent him from grabbing Carl by the hair and yanking him the ground like a ragdoll. In the barrage it appeared Nortrom had lost his knife-which was good, otherwise Carl would probably be dead.

Grappling was not something Carl knew a lot about. As Nortrom put him in a choke hold, he told himself he'd study it so much that when people called him a master they'd be insulting him. Losing air, he swung his elbows behind himself, and was rewarded when he heard a pained grunt and the hold released. He fell forward, gasping, then swung around and started creating another magic missile. It was unlikely he'd be able to stand after it was fired off, but victory would be worth it.

It was then, when victory seemed so close he could taste it-pork and beans-that the headache skyrocketed to a new threshold of pain. The magic in his hands fizzled out, completely. He could feel his magic being drained away by some unknown force, and all he could see were Nortrom's frightfully blue eyes boring into his. But the other boy was having difficulty staying on his feet, too.

Vision cut out as Carl lost consciousness.

-_-–-

He felt like he was dead. He'd been there before. This time, however, there was no fountain. He wasn't dead, then. That was good, he guessed.

Carl sat up, groaning at how his face ached. He grabbed his nose, prepared himself, and then cranked it straight again with a shout. There was blood all over him, and he felt incredibly light headed. He pulled a water skin out of his pack and tried to remedy his lack of universe had some mercy, though-it was night time, and the cool air was soothing.

Calling a single Quas to existence, Carl felt its strange healing properties flow through him. He still couldn't connect cold and healing, but he was sure he'd figure it out eventually.

Standing with a groan, he spotted Nortrom leaning against one of the rotting crosses. He had removed his shirt and bandaged his side, the parts of which were exposed had turned purple. Remembering the terms of the duel, Carl inwardly cursed and withheld a smart quip. The young wizard walked over and stood next to him, staring out over the landscape and glancing up at the moon.

"You won." Nortrom said, after a minute. Carl looked at him in surprise.

"No I didn't." He said, voice hoarse after swallowing blood. He took another drink of water. "I blacked out."

"You were still standing when I fell over." Their eyes met, and Carl smirked.

"It's a draw, then, because I definitely didn't win, and you insist I did." He passed the water to Nortrom, who took it, and clapped his hands. "So, do you want to come with me or not?"

When Nortrom finished drinking, he passed the skin back, and said nothing.

He did nod, though, so Carl secretly counted the duel as a victory.

* * *

><p>The walk back to Rome took time, but it was worth it for the bed at the inn. Nortrom had not actually been staying at the inn, and told Carl (in as few words possible) that he was going to find a healer and would return to the inn in the morning. Carl trusted the other boy enough that he doubted he'd go back on his nod, but made sure to tempt Nortrom with mention that the inn's bed was big enough for the two of them if he wanted to return sooner to rest. As the silent boy left, he mentioned that Carl should get a haircut-long hair like his was easy to grab in a fight, as he'd proved earlier. Carl resigned himself to this logic, and agreed to get it cut after he had been in contact with the bed for at least 10 hours.<p>

Indeed, the bed was nice-but no matter how Carl tossed and turned he could not fall asleep. Malcontent, he threw the blankets aside and tugged one of his father's talismans out of his bag. It was one inscribed for protection, and contained a fraction of the essence of a mountain. Carl, having read every book in his father's collection, knew that mountains were big. And not living. So how did one capture the essence of it? It was one of the many things mentioned, but never explored in detail, in his father's collection.

He tossed that talisman into his bag, and pulled out another, one meant for regeneration and well-being.

As an afterthought, he tossed the pebbles he'd picked up into his bag, too.

Some hours later, after Carl had pulled out a number more of his fathers talismans, Nortrom arrived. He looked a bit better, but was still wearing bandages under his clothes.

"What?" Carl asked, when Nortrom looked at him funny. He looked down at himself, and realized he was literally covered in talismans. "Oh, these are mementos of my father. Most of them are cosmetic, but some do have magical properties." He pulled on a red one, with a ruby inside."This one heats up the wearer, for instance. Others give your magic a bit of electricity, or fire." Laughing, he took them all off and tossed them back into his bag. "There's so much you can do with them-I'm a more active style magic user, though, and talismans aren't really my thing. See, there's active and passive styles-there are more, of course, but-"

He looked toward Nortrom, and found him passed out on the bed. Chuckling, Carl walked over to the window and stared out at the red rising sun.

"Good morning, Nortrom."

* * *

><p>Active magic is magic requiring action to create an effect. Quas, Wex, and Exort all fall under this category, even though their effects are almost passive, because they require conscious thought and can be used actively. Spell bolts, offense and defensive attacks, and movement-like apparition-all fall under this category. This is the style of magic for a battlemage.<p>

Passive magic includes shield spells, talismanic effects, ritualistic enhancements, and property increases-such as using a spell that made your skin as hard as 'x' material. The passive style is also intrinsically tied to standing still, or staying in one place. Castle defenders and the like practice these magics.

There is no underlying philosophy for either. What works is what is used.

-&%##&(&%6-&%'-7-


End file.
